


the best of all possible worlds

by Toft



Series: Companion!Harold verse [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV), Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Horses, M/M, Racism, Societal inequality, Soulmates, Telepathy, Xenophilia, soulbonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 05:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5993764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Candace has taken some weird-ass orders at the Starbucks ride-in, but she’s never made tea for a horse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the best of all possible worlds

Candace has taken some weird-ass orders at the Starbucks ride-in, but she’s never made tea for a horse.

“Three extra-large cups of green tea, one sugar in each,” the guy says. He has to lean down to look through the window at her, his horse is so damn big, and he’s got to be over six four. “And -”

His voice is drowned out by yelling and high-pitched horse shrieks at a near-collision on the road. The ride-in is just off the arterial road, and they get a steady traffic of commuter carriages on Fridays and Mondays, horse-guards and couriers the rest of the time. This guy’s neither. He’s a big white guy, clean-cut, kind of handsome if you like that kind of thing, except Candace is getting a weird feeling off him, a sort of absence, like a crater where he should be in the landscape.

“I’m sorry, sir, could you repeat that?”

“And some ice,” he says, a little louder, but his attention is on the two guys yelling at each other in the street. The way he watches them is too careful, and too casual at the same time.

Rolling her eyes now he isn’t looking, Candace stirs one sugar into each of the three extra-large cups, then stirs a chunk of ice into each. In the summer, they get ice delivered twice a day, but right now it’s cold as shit outside and they have a tub of clean water out back to freeze that they break up with a pick every now and then.

“Your horse want anything else?” she yells out of the window.

The guy looks at her, then his eyes go peculiar, sort of glazed.

“You got any chocolate muffins?” he says. He looks at her, handsome face and white-teeth smile, and a dark pit underneath. Candace can’t help it. She _reaches_ , just to take a peek.

_Didn’t anyone teach you that it’s rude to poke into other people’s minds?_

She jumps, and spills tea on her hand. She gets the feeling of being _opened_ , someone rummaging through her stuff, like all the times she’s come to home to her drawers upturned and her closet messed up, the money she stashed away gone to feed Dwight’s habit, again. Now he’s doing time, she’s just spending the money on the post carriage to see him every weekend. It isn’t easier, and she’s mad at him for it, all the time, even though it’s not all his fault. She wanted to go to college, learn to _help_ people like the Herald helped her daddy when he got caught up in the -

 _Oh,_ says the voice. _I see._

It stops, all of a sudden. She blinks at the guy, tears blurring her eyes, and he looks back at her, as featureless as a blank wall.

“Harold?” he says evenly, “What are you doing?”

His eyes go funny again, then he says, “I apologize for my friend. He was raised in a barn.”

Candace’s hands have taken over, doing what needs to get done, like they always do, even when she thinks she can’t take anymore; strong hands, her grandmother’s hands. She passes him the holder with the three huge teas and the small coffee, shoves a muffin into a paper bag and passes that out too. She can’t cry. She has three hours left on shift.

He passes her a twenty. “Keep the change,” he says. “Have a nice day.”

She watches him go, his horse’s ass rolling in an odd, limping gait. “Fuck you, mister,” she whispers, then looks down at the note. Under her eyes, it becomes a fifty. She _knows_ it was a twenty. It’s the weirdest thing she’s ever seen. She looks back at the line-up. There’s no-one; the ruckus in the street has scared off customers, even though it’s cleared up now.

“I gotta take a break,” she says, and grabs her coat, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

*

 _You want to tell me what that was about?_ John says, as he leans against the wall and holds up the bowl for Harold to drink his tea. Rodriguez is in his apartment now, and they can see the only entrance from their spot in the alley. John still doesn’t know exactly why Harold thinks he’s in trouble, but after that scene with the cab driver, it’s not hard to guess.

 _That young lady has a powerful untrained Gift_ , says Harold. John’s getting better at sensing the undertones to what Harold’s saying, even as Harold is getting better at shielding them from him; it’s a constant push-pull of John wanting to know and Harold wanting to hide. He can’t complain, though; it’s the same the other way around. Right now, though, Harold isn’t all that invested in hiding that he’s angry.

_She didn’t get tested? Or Viewed?_

_It’s not uncommon, especially in poverty-stricken neighbourhoods. It’s very easy for people to slip through the net, whatever the Collegium would have the general population believe. You know that from your own experience._

For a moment, John’s _there_ , back in his hometown, talking to the army recruitment officer who came to his school - then he’s in the sheriff’s office, after the fire, huddled under a blanket and trying not to see the way people are looking at him, and the same officer is talking to the sheriff quietly, John can’t hear what they’re saying but he knows they’re talking about pressing charges, talking about what to do with John, and the sheriff looks over at him and says - _stop it._ John wrenches himself out of the memory. _Jesus, Harold._

 _Sorry_ , Harold says, not sounding very repentant.

It’s the first time Harold has mentioned the Collegium of his own accord, and he seems rattled, upset. John isn’t above using a moment of vulnerability to get the answers he wants, especially as it’s seeming more and more like he’s not going to get them any other way.

_Isn’t there a shortage of Heralds after 9/11? You’d think they’d be doing more outreach._

_I’m afraid that for all that the Collegium likes to paint itself as an egalitarian meritocracy_ , Harold’s inner voice spits out, _its principal weakness is in not recognizing that it is as vulnerable to structural inequality as any large institution. They’re not only called the White Riders because of the colour of the Companions, you know._

That was… not what John was expecting.

 _Is that why you left?_ He’s taking a gamble on that, and he isn’t sure if Companions _can_ leave the Collegium, but he’s pretty sure that Harold isn’t only keeping a low profile because of John’s place on the wanted list.

 _I’m sorry to say that while I was with the Collegium the thought never even crossed my mind,_ Harold says, and it’s enough of a concession that John doesn’t push at the doors he can feel shutting down between them. _The muffin now, please._

 _These are probably bad for you_ , John thinks, and rubs Harold’s ears as he eats it out of John’s hand, his soft mouth nuzzling at his palm to get the last of the crumbs.

 _So are a great many other things,_ Harold thinks. There’s a sudden rush of affection over the link, so bright and open that it dazzles John, still. _Not you, though._

He’s read up a little, since Harold first installed himself in his brain. The initiation of a Companion bond stimulates a massive dump of serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine into the bloodstream; it’s a little like dropping ecstasy. After the first forty-eight hours, the feeling of earth-shattering happiness settled down into something more containable, but that little contented hum hasn’t faded. It’s still there, and John finds himself now circling it, poking at it, wanting to test that it’s real. He still can’t really believe in Harold. In what Harold feels for him.

Harold snorts, and nuzzles at John’s palm some more. John wipes the muffin crumbs on his pants and strokes Harold’s nose, the side of his neck. Harold isn’t saying anything, but he wants to reassure John and doesn’t know how. John gets the distinct sense that Harold doesn’t really know what to do with his body, most of the time - that he feels a little alienated from it. Partly it’s from the injury, from living with pain, but it goes deeper than that - it’s a path into Harold’s mind that runs deep into the dark secret corridors he won’t let John see.

 _It’s, well -_ Harold thinks, a little awkwardly. _Many Companions take a more - active role than me in supporting their Heralds. My skills lie in other areas._ Like maybe how he knew Rodriguez was in, or was going to cause trouble - John knows Foresight is a common Gift, but he didn’t know Companions could have it too, or even if that’s how Harold’s doing it - and how Harold’s able to disguise himself, and John, apparently without any trouble at all, which John’s heard of, but he’s pretty sure isn’t normal.

 _You’re a nerd horse_ , John thinks, delighted. _Tech support._

 _Something like that._ Harold’s - embarrassed, John realizes. _It’s just that, someone like me wouldn’t normally be matched with someone like you. You’re so - well._

John gets a glimpse, suddenly, of how Harold sees him, so brief that he’s not even sure Harold means him to know: Harold is amazed at John’s physical skill, his strength, the speed with which he can assess a situation and intervene effectively - Harold thinks John is _wonderful -_

John feels his cheeks flush, and he presses his face into Harold’s neck to hide the way his face must look.

*

Mr Empty Face and his horse haven’t gone far. Candace follows her nose, and finds them around the corner. Empty Face is holding up a big tin bowl, the kind that cafes sometimes put out full of water for dogs on hot days, except it’s freezing, and the bowl is full of lukewarm tea being drunk by a horse. Candace ducks into the shadow of a doorway and watches them; she doesn’t think too hard about why she’s here. She doesn’t always know why she does things, but when she gets this feeling like _girl, go there,_ it usually turns out to be important

Something about the scene is off. Now that she gets a good look at the horse, she can see that it’s _big_ like a motherfucker and gleaming white all over, but also - it doesn’t act like a regular horse. It’s not wearing a real bridle and bit - even though she could have sworn it was, before - and every so often Empty Face laughs a little, or frowns, like he’s talking to someone. Then suddenly it’s like it was with the money; she’s looking at a horse, and then she’s looking at a Companion, just like Abraham Lincoln’s Companion Sheldrake on the ten dollar bill. Then there’s another of those little mental shutter-clicks, and she sees that Mr Empty Face and the Companion are talking, in their minds. And when she looks again, Empty Face isn’t empty any more. He’s - shining. He leans in close to touch his forehead to the Companion’s neck, and suddenly the Companion looks straight at her, the blue of his eyes visible even from here. She’s crying again, but this time she isn’t sad.

 _All right, that’s enough_ , he says in her head. He doesn’t sound like before, though. He sounds gentle. _Leave us alone now, please. This is private._

She turns away, abashed.

  _There’s someone coming for you_ , the Companion - Harold - says in her head. _I’ve passed on an anonymous tip, of sorts. But I’d prefer you didn’t remember this._

She blinks. She’s standing outside the back door of the ride-in. She can’t remember what she was - she came out for some air, right? She feels better now. She goes back inside, and hangs up her coat, and sits down next to Sherry, and starts taking orders. It’s time for the evening rush.

It’s snowing, when her shift ends. She bundles up, but the cold still hits her like a slap in the face. She mentally girds herself for the walk home, and steps out into the street. In the distance, she can hear a bright ringing sound, like hooves, only lighter, more like bells. A shiver runs down her spine, like vertigo, a premonition of change. The snow is making the street look pristine, a clean, new path for her to walk, and she steps firmly into it, leaving footprints behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) How does a global corporation like Starbucks exist in a society where horses are still the major conveyance technology? Look, there are telepathic soulbonds, okay? Starbucks should be the least of your worries.
> 
> 2) Thanks to wychwood for helping me hammer out how the Collegium became susceptible to structural racism.


End file.
